Call Me Home
by melissaeverdeen13
Summary: Having just escaped an abusive relationship with her daughter's father, Luke, Beca falls upon hard times. But Jesse, having always had the ability to show up at the right time, comes and adds something of a silver lining to their lives.
1. Chapter 1

_Hi my Jeca readers! First of all I wanna say thank you to those of you who still read this ship. For some reason, I continue to be inspired for them. Second of all, this is just part 1 to probably a 2-part series. As of right now, it'll probably be 2 parts but I will let you know if that changes! Happy reading, and please review! _

…

I can still hear Chelsea's voice when she was newly three years old, on her birthday. The party had commenced, everyone was at the house except the man in question. "Where's my daddy?" she had asked, those baby blues blinking up at me in the way I was so familiar with.

"He'll be here soon, babe," I told her, smoothing her brown curls away from her face. "Don't worry about it. Go have fun with your friends."

"Is he late?" she asked, little voice wavering.

"Yeah. He's just late," I reassured, the sentiment geared both towards her and myself. It was a comfort to us both.

Luckily, I was right. Thirty minutes later, after the cake had been cut and the first presents had been opened, Luke blustered in the door still wearing his aviator sunglasses. "Where's my birthday girl?" he had bellowed, disrupting the scene and diverting the attention to himself. "Where's my Chelsea Joy?"

"Here, daddy!" she chorused, standing on the chair I had placed her in.

"There she is!" he cheered, lifting her up and twirling her around. Mid-twirl, he dropped a kiss to my cheek and lingered for only a moment. "Hey, B. Sorry, stuff ran late at the station. Made it here as fast as I could."

"You're late," I said through gritted teeth.

"Late," Chelsea mimicked.

"But I'm here now!" he exclaimed, tossing her in the air in the way he knew I hated. It made me nervous. She was a child, not a sack of potatoes. "Isn't that what matters?"

I sighed and pasted a smile on. It was what I was used to. Those words were what I told myself. Yes, he was late, but he came. He was home. That's what counted.

…

At least her third birthday had been different from her first, when he didn't show at all. That's what I compared everything to after it happened; _at least he's here. At least he showed. At least he didn't forget his daughter's birthday_. Because no matter how much he claimed otherwise, I know that's what happened that day.

I'd been planning Chelsea's first birthday party for months preceding, something I never thought I'd do. I always thought that mothers who got overly excited for a birthday their child wouldn't remember were crazy. The kid didn't even know what was going on, all they cared about was the cake. But once I had a baby of my own and she got closer and closer to 12 months old, I understood the excitement. Chelsea had almost completed a year on this earth, a year with us, and I couldn't believe time had flown as fast as it did.

I wanted to include Luke in on the excitement, which was a task in itself. I tried to understand his viewpoint; I had held the same beliefs at one point too - that it was overhyped. But that was before our child was born, before our world flipped on its head. Or at least, when mine did. He had acted lacklusterly at best, but to say I was surprised when he never turned up at his own house for his daughter's first birthday would be a huge understatement. I made excuses to guests, told them he was hosting someone very important at the radio station, when in reality I had no fucking clue what he was doing instead of being there for Chelsea's milestone.

He got home later that night when I was falling in and out of sleep on the couch, baby on my chest. She would normally have been in her crib at that hour, but I couldn't bear to part from her that night. She was one year old and everything seemed different, like she was growing up too fast. I just wanted to hold onto her for a little while. She didn't wake up when he stumbled in the door reeking of booze and smoke.

I didn't bother asking where he'd been because I knew. I just got up, breezed past him, and took the baby to her room. I laid her down then got in bed myself, but not before locking the bedroom door - a silent way of letting him know he wasn't welcome to join me.

…

I don't know how I let him bounce back from that and the thousands of other things that went wrong in our marriage. But the last straw broke on a rainy night a few months ago, when he came home drunk and stupid.

"You said you were going to stop drinking," I said as soon as he came into the kitchen. He was tripping over his own feet, holding onto the island for support.

"I said that?" he slurred.

I shook my head. "You said a lot of shit."

"Oh, so all I say is shit," he said, glaring at me with bloodshot eyes.

"Basically," I said.

"How can you say that? I'm your husband," he prattled on.

"I don't even know what that means. You're the furthest thing from a husband. You're never around, and when you are, you're drunk. What kind of an example do you think that sets for Chelsea?"

"Don't talk to me about Chelsea," he said, pointing a swaying finger in my direction. "I love that kid. You know that."

"Sometimes, I'm not sure."

"You better shut the fuck up!' he shouted, facial features pinching together. "That kid is the best thing that ever happened to me. Only good thing you ever gave me."

"Stop it, Luke," I said, turning away to try and diffuse the situation. It was never good when he started yelling. A raised voice always put me on edge; my anxiety was worse than ever due to his unpredictable temper. "I'm sorry."

"Don't turn away," he said, stomping over. "Look at me. Beca, look at me. I swear to god, if you don't look at me!"

I turned around in fear of what he might do if I didn't to find him already in my space. He had me trapped against the sink as he held my shoulders, then shook me once to rattle my head around. "Luke," I said, turning my face to the side. His breath smelled overpoweringly like hard liquor, so much that I could barely inhale. "I'm sorry."

"You better be fuckin' sorry," he said, then picked up a glass from where it had been drying on the rack and tossed it across the room - so hard, it smacked against the far wall and shattered into pieces. "Fuck you."

I jumped at the sound, closing my eyes in fear he might hit me. He'd only done it a few times before, and they were always bruises I could hide. He was never this drunk, though. I was afraid his fist was about to land on my face. How would I explain away a bruise like that? "Please," I said, trying to squirm free. But his grip on my upper arms was inexplicably tight. "Luke, let me go."

He shoved me again, this time so the small of my back rammed against the ledge of the sink. I winced in pain, clenching my jaw with closed eyes, but they sprang open when I heard a familiar voice whimper, "Mommy?"

Luke spun around as he heard it, too. And there was Chelsea in her teal nightgown, hair mussed, curls wild from sleep. She had her favorite stuffed rabbit under her arm and her thumb was halfway out of her mouth, which caused her to jumble my name a bit.

Instantly, Luke freed my arms and stormed out of the room. As he did, I could do nothing but collapse to the floor and listen to the vague sound of the front door opening and slamming shut, and before I knew it, my daughter was in my arms. She had hers wrapped around my neck, her face buried in my hair, and we were both desperately trying not to cry. I held her tight, though, and made a silent promise to the both of us that we would leave. That night.

"Mommy," she whispered, after some time had passed. We still hadn't moved. I was still formulating a plan and almost thought she had fallen back to sleep. "Is Daddy bad?"

It was the first time I couldn't force myself to come up with a lie for Chelsea. But at the same time, I couldn't stomach telling her the truth.

…

Now, my baby is five and we've been on our own for about three months. We live in a studio apartment twenty miles from our old house, the house that I let Luke stay in without a fight. I just needed out. I didn't want things to get messy, so I allowed him everything he wanted. He didn't ask for Chelsea, but if he had, she would've been the one thing I fought for. Obviously.

As she lies in bed next to me, turned on her side with her thumb in her mouth and stuffed rabbit under one arm, I study her face and sigh as softly as I can. Today, she starts kindergarten at a new school and I start a new job as a cleaning lady. There was a fancier title than that with the agency I went through, but that's basically what the job is. I go around and clean offices during the week, and it's what will pay our bills. My dad has helped with rent for the three months we've been out, but I can't rely on him forever. I won't do that. I can hold me and Chelsea up, even if it means doing a job that I would rather not do. Nothing is below keeping my daughter safe and warm. After she was born, I put aside my pride and my tendency of only accepting jobs that I deemed worthy. Now, my dreams of becoming a producer have been shoved so far to the side that they're essentially forgotten. Chelsea needs me too much to think about the dreams I had in college.

The alarm is about to go off and I barely slept. Being that it's autumn, though, the room is still dark as the clock nears 7. For the moments we have left, I cradle Chelsea's face with one hand and press my lips to her forehead, allowing my eyes to close as I breathe in her scent - maple syrup, no matter what.

She jumps when my phone sounds out the marimba, a familiar tune that rises us to wakefulness. Since we started sharing a bed in our tiny apartment, it's become her alarm as much as mine. "Good morning, beautiful," I say to her, finger-combing hair out of her bleary eyes.

She hugs her rabbit closer and tucks her knees close, rounding her body into a tiny ball. "I'm tired," she murmurs, voice muffled by the rabbit's fur.

"I know," I say. "Me, too."

"You, too?"

"Uh-huh. But we still gotta go to work and school today."

"Work and school every day."

"But today's pretty special, isn't it?" I say, letting my voice rise with excitement. "Your very first day of kindergarten."

She looks up at me, baby blues wide and wondering. "Are you coming?" she asks.

"Of course," I say. "Someone's gotta drive you, unless you learned how to drive overnight. Is that the case? Or maybe Rabby learned?"

She giggles despite herself. "No, he didn't, mommy."

"I didn't think so," I say.

"But I mean are you coming in my class?" she says, running the rabbit's ears between her first finger and thumb.

"I'll walk you in," I tell her.

"And stay," she suggests.

"Well, I can't stay," I say. "You know how school works."

She pauses for a moment before asking, "Do I have to go all day?"

"Yes…" I say. "It's not like preschool, where I come get you at lunch. You get to eat lunch at school now. Do you want me to make it, or do you wanna buy it there?"

"Mommy make it," she says softly.

"Alright," I say. "Are you gonna be okay?" She shrugs, so I squeeze her shoulder. "Tell me that you're gonna be okay. You're my big, strong girl. Aren't you?"

"I'm not big," she claims.

"Okay, my little strong baby."

"I'm not a baby!" she laughs, then puts the rabbit in my face. "_You're_ a baby."

"Oh, I'm a baby?" I say, chuckling. "I don't think so."

"You're a baby!" she sings, then props herself up before leaning forward and wrapping her arms around my neck in a big hug.

"Oh, morning hugs," I say, patting her back. "We gotta get up and get going, Chelsea-bear."

"Chelsea-bear is not going to school," she says playfully.

"Oh, yes she is," I tease back, tickling her belly. "Oh, yes she is!"

She laughs, head thrown back with her mouth wide open, then I let her catch her breath. "After school, can we have ice cream?" she asks.

"Sure," I answer instantly, then rethink my answer. "Oh, wait. Mama has a cleaning job that I have to do after you get out of school. You gotta come with me, but we can hang out together while we're there. How about we get ice cream on the way?"

"Okay," she says. "And we can sing while we're there?"

I shoot her a mischievous look. "Only if no one else is there. You know how it goes."

She flashes me a smile, one I wish didn't look so much like her father's, and says, "Yeah."

…

The cleaning company hasn't yet given me a uniform, so I'm instructed to come to work in tidy clothes that I can get dirty. So, picking out the first t-shirt that I find, I end up driving Chelsea to school in dark blue jeans and an old Bellas t-shirt.

"Mommy, you said I can have that shirt," Chelsea says once we're in the school parking lot. "Why are you wearing it?"

"I said you could have it when you're bigger," I tell her, unbuckling as she does.

"I'm older now," she says. "It would fit."

"It'd fit you like a dress, munchkin," I say, taking her hand to help her out of the car. Today, she's wearing a first-day-of-school outfit that she let me pick out - a blue and white striped short sleeved dress with gold, shiny high-top shoes. Her hair is in a half top knot with the rest down and curly; she looks like the angel she is.

"Can I wear it to bed tonight?"

"It's gonna be dirty from working," I say. "I'll find you another Bellas shirt to wear."

"Auntie Chloe said she's gonna make me one special that's my size for Christmas," Chelsea shares. "But I want yours 'til then."

"Sounds good," I say, smiling as I drop a kiss to her forehead and take her hand to lead her in the school.

When we get to her classroom where she met her teacher a few days ago, my daughter suctions herself to my leg and will barely look up. She's like me in the way that in a new environment, she's not quite sure what to do with herself. But once she gets comfortable, she'll shine. She always does. Her teacher comes over to greet her and Chelsea gives a meager wave, and once it's time for me to bid her goodbye she wraps her arms so tight around my neck that I start to worry about air supply.

"Alright, Chelsea-bear," I say, pulling her off with a certain degree of difficulty. "It's time for me to go now. You gotta do this on your own."

"I want Mama," she peeps. "I don't know anybody. All my friends are at my old school."

I sigh a little, feeling guilt swirl in my lower belly. "I know," I say softly, tucking a piece of brown hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry, I wish you could be with them."

"I wanna be with _you_," she says, clinging to my waist and latching her hands together behind me.

"We have tonight," I say. "We're gonna get ice cream and go clean an office. While we sing. Remember?"

"Yeah," she says, tracing the collar of my shirt. "Can I just come with you now, though?"

"No, not now," I say, standing. "You're gonna stay here and learn a lot. Can you remember some things to teach me when I pick you up?"

She shakes her head. "No," she says.

"You can try," I say, then kiss her once more. "I'm gonna go now."

"Mommy," she whines, sounding desperate. I hate hearing her voice in any sort of despair, because it reminds me of the night I would do anything not to go back to.

"Go ahead," the teacher says, giving me a kind look. "This is common on the first day. Don't feel bad." She looks at Chelsea. "Your mom will be back to pick you up after we're all done spending time together!"

Chelsea's expression tells me she doesn't trust the teacher as far as she can throw her. "I'll see you soon, Chels," I say. "Promise. Have a fun day today."

"And ice cream tonight?" she says.

"Ice cream tonight," I say, intent on keeping my promise. "I love you."

I leave the school with my stomach in knots, then sit in the car for a while as I try to clear my head. I know my emotions aren't unique in the sense that every parent feels this way dropping their young child off at school, but this feels like more than separation anxiety. I don't like having Chelsea where I can't see her and know she's safe. It makes me feel like Luke could be around any corner, though I know that's not necessarily true.

I haven't heard from him, nor do I want to. We're legally divorced, but he isn't paying the child support that was assigned to him. I haven't gotten a single check in the months we've been apart, though I can't say I expected to. I refuse to get the court involved, though, because I can only imagine how he'd react if I did. I'll find a way to make ends meet somehow. I don't need his help. I'd rather have him cut cleanly from our lives, anyway. That'll make things easier in the long-run.

I spend my day away from Chelsea in a retirement home, cleaning and turning off my mind. The people are decent and kind, but most leave me to the job I'm there for, which I prefer. By the time I'm finished and it's time for school to let out, I've tried to wash the smell of bleach from my skin but I'm not sure how well it worked. Hopefully, it doesn't bother Chelsea too much.

I pull in front of the school and wait outside the car, unable to stop smiling when I see her. She reciprocates the expression but not by much. Usually, she flashes her teeth in an uncontrollable, wide grin. Today, only the corners of her lips pull up. "Hey, beautiful!" I say, kneeling as she approaches. "How was your first day?"

She attempts a better smile, but it doesn't quite work. But either way, she says, "Good."

"Just good?" I say, holding her at arm's length to get a better look at her. "Only good, that's all I get? Since when did you start being quiet like your mommy?" She shrugs again, this time with a bit more light in her eyes. I give her a kiss on the cheek and then stand, my eyes catching on two big blotches of dirt on her knees. "What happened here?" I ask, trying to brush off the stains. "Did you get hurt?"

"Falled," she says, but there's something about the quick way she answers that makes me second guess her.

"You fell?" I ask. "That's all?"

I know it's not abnormal for kids to get dirty while they're at school, but there's something about her diminished demeanor that tells me it's something other than that. It's intuition; something I never trusted before Chelsea came along. "Yeah," she answers. "Can we go to your work now?" she asks.

"Babe," I say, cupping her chin. "Did something happen today at school?"

"No, mommy," she insists, an edge creeping into her voice that I recognize from my own. "I just falled."

"Alright," I say, deciding to trust her. "Then let's go get that ice cream we were talking about."

Chelsea's mood picks up once she has a cone filled with cookies and cream in her hand, legs swinging to the song on the radio as we drive along. "What kinda place are we gonna clean?" she asks, licking her lips as remnants are all over her face.

"Um…" I look on the sheet of paper resting in the passenger's seat. "A recording company."

"What's that?"

"People write songs there and others come in and record them," I say, something strange yet familiar panging in my gut.

"Like you!"

"Well," I say, chuckling. "Not quite."

"But like you _used _to."

"Kind of."

"Like Daddy?" she wonders quietly.

I pinch my lips and force myself to answer straightforwardly, as best I can. "No," I say. "He had his radio station. They play other people's music. This is where people create their own."

"Oh," she says, still eating. "I wanna make my own."

"Maybe someday," I say with a smile.

We pull up and park, and I enlist Chelsea to help me carry some of the supplies inside. She totes the spray cleaners and rags while I take care of the vacuum and mop, and once we're in the building I get her set up on a spinning chair while I work on vacuuming inside the sound booths. "Sing, mommy," she says a little while later, while spinning in circles. "Nobody's here. It's all empty, like you said."

I look over and find her covered in ice cream though she's finished eating. "Here, sticky," I say, handing her a wet wipe.

She cleans herself up with it then throws it in the trash bag attached to my unit. "Now sing?" she asks. "Do something Taylor Swift."

"What am I gonna do with you, Swiftie?" I ask. "When are you gonna start picking something more original?"

"Taylor, Taylor, Taylor!" she cheers, teasing me.

"Fine, fine, alright," I say, then start. "_My castle crumbled overnight, I brought a knife to a gunfight, they took the crown but it's alright_…" I walk over to her chair and place my hands on both armrests, smiling right into her pretty face as she returns the gesture. "_All the liars are callin' me one, nobody's heard from me for months, I'm doin' better than I ever was_. _My baby's fit like a day-_"

"Beca Mitchell?"

The voice comes out of nowhere and makes both me and Chelsea scream. I flip around, shielding her body with my own as the worst-case scenario always comes to mind first. Chest heaving, I expect to see Luke staring back at me. But instead, I see someone who I haven't let myself think about for years and years. It's Jesse Swanson, in crisp jeans and a button-down shirt, looking at me with the same brown eyes I once fell in love with.

But instead of amazement, I feel anger first. "You can't sneak up on someone like that!" I shrill, one arm still in front of Chelsea like Jesse is some sort of threat to her, which is so far from the truth that it's laughable. "You could've…" I press one hand to my chest and close my eyes for a moment. "I didn't think anyone was here."

"I didn't, either," he says, eyes still smiling as they haven't moved from my face. "Then I heard the singing and… well, I thought I recognized the voice. And I thought… no way, you know? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." I nod, feeling awkward. His gaze moves a little lower and his shoulders bounce with a silent chuckle. "I like your shirt."

Shit, I have the Bellas t-shirt on. Looking like a total idiot, like I wear this regularly and I'm still stuck in the past. But how am I supposed to explain myself without looking like a bumbling idiot? So, all I can say is, "Oh. Yeah."

Then, I feel a tug on the back of it. "Mommy?" Chelsea questions.

Jesse's eyebrows raise as he peers around me, and I move to the side to allow him to see her, the little brunette mini-me sitting on the spinning chair. "Is that an… aca-child?" he asks, grin growing wider.

"What?" I say, eyes squinting as I'm thoroughly confused.

"Never mind," he says, sounding bashful.

I take a look at my daughter to find her watching us with trepidation, unsure of how she should react. She has no idea who Jesse is - how would she? She has no clue if he's a friend or if she should be scared, and I need to clear that up. "Chels," I say. "This is my friend, Jesse. In college, we…" My sentence falls off and I'm unsure how to finish it. "We were friends in college."

He nods as if to punctuate my statement. "That we were," he says. "Hi, Chelsea. You must be Beca's daughter."

"Yeah," she says happily. "How'd you know that?"

"Well, you two look exactly alike," he says, then smirks. "And you're almost as tall as she is."

"See!" Chelsea says, pushing herself onto her knees. "Mommy, I told you I'm tall and that shirt will fit me!"

"The tallest," Jesse says, catching my eye. "Obviously, if you get your height from your mom."

"I do," Chelsea says boastfully. "I get everything from my mom."

I smile awkwardly, ducking my chin while keeping one hand on the top of Chelsea's head. "So, you work here, I assume?" I say to him a few beats later.

"Yeah," he says.

"Your dream," I say.

"What?"

"It was what you always wanted," I say quietly. "To write music for movies. Isn't that what you do?"

"Well, I don't write it," he says. "That's above my pay grade. But I fit it into the picture, yeah. I help, at least."

"That's great," I say. "That's awesome."

"And… you?" he says.

"This," I say, gesturing to the cleaning supplies. "At least for right now."

"Nice."

"That's a word for it."

"Yeah."

There's another stilted pause where neither of us really know what to say. At least, I don't. He probably does, because he always did, but he chooses to keep his mouth shut. Maybe that's for the better, I don't know. "Well, we should get back to it," I say, slapping my palms down on my thighs.

"Right," he says. "Sorry for distracting you. I promise, no more sneaking around."

"Thanks."

"Chelsea, I'm gonna trust you to keep an eye on your mom."

She giggles and looks at Jesse with shining eyes. "I will," she says.

"Good," he says, the nods at me. "See you around, Bec."

…

"Jesse said I'm tall. Did you hear him, Mommy? Now, you have to believe me. I'm tall, right?"

"Right."

"'Cause Jesse said so."

"Yes, Chels."

"Were you guys best friends in college?"

"Kind of."

"How come you never telled me about him before?"

"I don't know. It just didn't come up."

"You telled me everything about Auntie Chloe. Does Jesse know Auntie Chloe?"

"Yes."

"How come she never said anything about him? Is he a secret?"

"No, baby."

"Did you forget about him?"

"Kind of. Not really. No."

"Just for a little while you did?"

"Sure, yeah. Just a little while. Are you done asking questions?"

"Not yet. Did you know that was his office job?"

"No."

"Are you glad we saw him, mommy?"

"I guess… I don't really know how I feel about it."

"How do you not know?"

"Because feelings are confusing, Chels."

"Not really."

"For grown-ups, they are."

"That's silly. I liked him. Know why I liked him, mommy?"

With my eyes drifting closed, I ask, "Why?"

"'Cause he called me tall. He said I was tall like you. Almost as tall as you!"

"Mm-hmm," I say, rolling onto my side to face her.

"Are you falling asleep?" she asks.

"I am. And you should be, too."

"So we can go to school and do more work tomorrow?"

"Exactly."

…

A week later, Chelsea and I end up in Jesse's office again. Everything is just as dark, and we do the same work we did the week before. "Are we gonna see Jesse again?" Chelsea asks, seemingly for the tenth time this hour alone.

"My ears are ringing," we hear, then Jesse peers around the corner. "Sorry. I didn't scare you, did I? I was trying not to." I shake my head no. "I brought dinner. I assumed you guys would be hungry."

"Yay!" Chelsea cheers, clambering down from the chair she plunked down in only a few minutes ago. "Sandwiches!"

"Subway," I say, eyebrows up. "You really went all out."

"Mommy, he brought cookies!" Chelsea announces.

"They have the best cookies around, you know that," Jesse says. "Come on, Bec."

"Come on, Bec," Chelsea echoes, taking a big bite out of a chocolate chip cookie before giving me a cheesy smile.

"Hey," I say, pointing playfully at her. "That's 'mommy' to you."

The three of us eat, exchanging surface conversation as we do. Jesse asks Chelsea about school and she gives him perfunctory answers, and once she's finished picking at her sandwich she hops down and busies herself in the corner with a bag full of toys that I packed for her.

"So," Jesse says, giving me a look that lets me know he expects me to spill everything because he plans to. "Where've you been the last five years?"

I nod towards Chelsea, who's now playing with a couple dilapidated Barbies and making them talk amongst themselves. "Little miss over there is five years and four months old," I say.

"Ah," he says. "Right."

"Where've _you_ been?" I ask.

"You're lookin' at it," he says. I laugh a little and he follows up with, "What's funny?"

I shake my head. "Just… nothing," I say. "But it's weird that you were this close all along and I never knew."

"Funny what you don't see right in front of your nose."

We lock eyes and share a buzzing moment, both of us reading the others thoughts - just like we used to. I try to block his out, though. I can't handle them at the moment. "Yeah," I agree, then clear my throat. "So, you're probably wondering who…" I look towards Chelsea again.

"I admit it, yeah," he says. "But I wasn't gonna ask."

"You can ask," I say. "Um, Luke's her dad."

Jesse's eyebrows go up and his mouth opens to respond, but Chelsea gets there first. She looks over her shoulder and adds to the conversation like she was a part of it the whole time. "On the night we went away, Daddy grabbed Mommy and pushed her. She had big bruises on her arms and we haven't seen him ever since."

No one knows what to say after. In all my years, I've never heard silence so loud.


	2. Chapter 2

_Okay so this is not the final part! I decided to make this a 3-parter. :) Please keep reviewing, I'm loving all the feedback!_

…

"Mommy. Your braid you put in Mermaid Barbie's hair came out. Can you do it again for her? She says pretty, pretty please, mommy."

I look over my shoulder to where Chelsea is playing under a desk in the corner office, her clan of Barbies a mess of hair and Velcro beside her. She's holding up a one-armed doll with a pink, scaled tail, whose hair looks like it definitely needs work. But I have rubber gloves on my hands as I scrub the windows, not available to play salon. "Not right now, babe," I say, turning back to the view in front of me.

"But Mommy…" she whines, sighing in defeat. "She looks all messy."

"Who was the one who undid her braid, huh?" I ask playfully.

"She did. She said she wanted her hair to be flowy in the bath. Remember, last night?" I do. That doll had been doing high dives from the faucet and then splashing into the water - my jeans had splatter-marks to prove it. "But then it dried all crazy, and she _really_ needs you to fix it."

"Chels, I'm busy."

"You're always busy."

"I'm-" I take a breath, about to argue before I stop myself. It's not worth getting into it. "We're at work right now. I have to do my job."

"It's not _my_ work," she grumbles. "It would just take a tiny second."

"Not right now, Chels," I say, casting one more look at her. I give a small shake of the head and she crosses her arms in a huff, pouting that lower lip out at me.

"Meanie," she grouches.

"Meanie?" I hear, then Jesse appears in the doorway like he's been known to do. We clean this office once a week, and have been for the last month or so. Maybe a little more. I can't be fooled to think that he works late every single Tuesday; it just doesn't track. I have a feeling he stays on purpose, but I haven't worked up the gall to say it aloud yet. I don't necessarily want him to stop, and I'm afraid that voicing it might make him do just that. "Who's the meanie?"

"I am, apparently," I say, and smile just a little. "Hey. Working late again?"

"You know me," he says. "Where's Chelsea?"

I make eye contact with my daughter where she sits under the desk and she puts a finger to her lips. "No idea," I fib, then turn around and continue with the windows.

"Huh," he says. "Too bad. Because I've been looking to show off my braiding skills and it's a shame I won't get to."

"What?" Chelsea says, blowing her cover by crawling out from underneath the desk with Mermaid Barbie in tow. "You can braid? Can you do Barbie hair?"

"Yeah," he says, shrugging like it's no big deal. "Of course."

She juts her arm out straight and shows him her doll. "Can you braid it really pretty?"

He takes it from her while I watch quietly, waiting to see what unfolds. "I can do you one better than pretty," he says, situation the doll between his knees. "I'll give you gorgeous."

"Gorgeous!" Chelsea titters. "Like Taylor Swift."

"_You're so gorgeous… I can't say anything to your face…_" Jesse sings under his breath.

"_'Cause look at your face_!" Chelsea finishes, shouting the lyric.

Jesse laughs and smiles at his hands while he works Barbie's hair into a neat, quick braid. "You like Taylor?" he asks.

"I love her!" Chelsea answers. "Like so, so, so, so much." Jesse's eyes flit over to me and we share a conspiratorial smile. It's not that I have anything against Taylor, but he knows that she's not my style. It's just my luck that I have a daughter obsessed with her and her candy pop vibe.

"That's a lot of love," Jesse says.

"Yeah."

He finishes up Barbie's hair, then presents her to Chelsea with grandeur. "May I present to you, the most beautiful braid you've ever seen," he says.

"Yay!" my daughter cheers. She takes the doll and runs her short fingers over the shiny braid, made new from his hands. "You did it so good. Do you practice at home? Does your kid have dolls that I can play with?" she asks hopefully.

Jesse laughs softly. "I don't have kids," he tells her.

"How did you get so good at braids?" Chelsea asks, then studies his head. "Your hair is way too short."

"Had a little sister growing up," he tells her, like they're sharing a secret. "She made me braid her hair _all_ the time, 'cause I'm pretty sure she wished she had a big sister instead of a brother. She wouldn't take no for an answer, so I had to learn."

"You learned 'cause of your little sister?"

"Yeah," he says. "And then, in college, I would do your mom's hair sometimes."

I hear Chelsea gasp and giggle. "She asked you to?" she prompts.

"Nah," he says. "I'd only do it when she'd let me. _I'd_ be the one asking _her_."

"'Cause she has really pretty hair," she says.

"Very pretty," he agrees.

"Mommy, Jesse thinks you have pretty hair," Chelsea says, and I hear the grin in her voice.

"You have a big mouth," he tells her.

"She gets that from Chloe," I say, stepping down from the stool I had been using.

"Auntie Chloe!" Chelsea says, gathering up her Barbies. "I'm gonna go make a craft for Auntie Chloe. Can I use the papers on your desk again, Jesse?"

"Sure," he says. "The pens and highlighters are all yours, too. Go wild."

"Go wild!" she repeats.

I snort as my daughter stampedes out of the room. "You're gonna regret saying that," I tell him.

He watches her go, then turns back to me. "She's so cute," he says.

"She is," I say, then kneel to gather the trash from the small bin near the wall.

"You want some help?" Jesse asks, standing. "While you do the trash, I could… polish something. Or something."

"Oh, god. No way," I say.

"Why not?" he asks. "It'd give me some purpose. I'm just sitting here taking up space, watching you work. It feels wrong."

"It's my job," I say, tying the trash bag and setting it on the bottom tray of my cart. "And you just happen to be here."

"Well, you're cleaning my workplace. So, I should help."

"This isn't your office," I say, a playful glint in my eye. "You're no bigwig."

"True," he says. "Even more reason as to why I should help. I'm earning my keep, if you think about it."

"If I think about it," I say, then sigh. "Jesse, no. Seriously. It's… embarrassing."

"Why?" he asks.

"Because I'm a cleaning lady," I say, eyes wide like he should understand. It's clear he doesn't, though.

"And?" he says. "You get to spend time with your kid. You're making money to pay the bills and keep her fed. And it means I get to hang out with you, too. What's so wrong with being a cleaning lady?"

I sigh. "We could've figured out some way to run into each other without this happening," I say.

"Oh, yeah?" he says, ignoring my wishes and wiping down the display case on the other side of the office. I don't bother telling him to stop; I know better than to think he'll listen. "I don't think so. We've lived in the same city for like, five years, and never even texted."

I say, "Phone works both ways." He shrugs one shoulder, now unable to look my way. It doesn't go unnoticed. "What?" I say.

He shakes his head. "I mean, I heard you got married. I didn't know to who… I didn't _want _to know. I figured texting you would just make things weird. That's why I didn't. It's not that I didn't want to."

"Oh," I say.

"And with the way things were with…" he trails off. "It probably wasn't possible for you to reach out to me."

"What do you mean?"

He turns around and we make eye contact - he's holding a rag, I'm holding a trash bag. There's so much space between us that I wish wasn't there, but I shouldn't allow myself to wish for that. That's crazy. "Because of him," he says. "Luke."

"Oh," I say, feeling my demeanor change. "Yeah."

"Beca," Jesse says. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But what… what Chelsea said the other day. I know it was bad timing then and I would never… not in front of her. But what went on between you and him? What did he do to you?"

I let out a long breath and set down the trash, bracing my hands on the desk in front of me. "I… it…" I say, then look towards the ceiling with a smile that holds anything but joy. It's to fill the space, more than anything. "It was never good?" I say, voice raising at the end like a question. "He was a drunk. That was basically it. And it wasn't like he came home every night and hit me. It was just… just a few times. He was always wasted. He never did it when he was sober, he would never…" My voice breaks, but I clear my throat to keep going. "What Chels was talking about, that was the last night. The fact that she saw it, I knew… I just knew that it was over. I couldn't let it go any longer." I shrug and blink hard, wanting to get those images out of my head. "We're not together anymore, obviously. Or maybe not obviously, I don't know. But we're divorced."

"And you're safe?" he asks. "Both of you?"

I nod. "Yeah," I say. "I don't think he'd like, come after us, or anything. But even so, he doesn't know where we live now."

"Good." Jesse shakes his head then presses his lips together, creases appearing on his forehead. "I'm sorry," he says finally. "I'm really sorry that happened to you. I… I don't know what to say other than that."

"Nothing," I say. "There's… I don't want you to say anything else."

"Does anyone know?" he asks. "Did you ever call the police? He could go to jail, Beca."

"You and I both know that wouldn't happen," I say, brushing him off. "Only Chloe knows. And now, you." I look at him with alarm, a new thought dawning on me. "You're not gonna try to get the police involved, are you?" I ask.

"No," he says. "No, I would never do something like that if you didn't ask me to."

"Okay."

There's a long pause as I dig through my cleaning cart without meaning, not looking for anything in particular. I just need something to do with my hands. "You don't have to be ashamed," Jesse finally says.

"What?" I say, picking my head up.

"About what he did, how he treated you," he clarifies. "You don't have to be embarrassed or ashamed. Or guilty, or anything."

I shrug a little. "It's hard not to feel like that. It's not so easy as just… not feeling like that."

"I know," he says. "But that's how he wants you to feel. And I just hope you know that… I don't know, you're not in the wrong. You got yourself and Chelsea out. You did a good thing."

That's the first time someone has said something like that to me in a long time. So, I meet his eyes deftly and say, "Thank you."

…

A few weeks later, I'm standing outside Chelsea's school and watching her come down the stairs with the rest of the kids. She shuffles over in a pair of jeans and a purple t-shirt, hair in a messy ponytail as I wave excitedly at her. "Hi, beautiful!" I exclaim, then kneel to give her a big hug. "How was your day?"

"Okay."

"Just okay?" I ask. "Do you wanna play for a little bit? I don't have to work this afternoon."

"No," she says, then flinches and glances over her shoulder as a pair of siblings comes screaming past us. "I wanna go home."

"Home?" I say, raising my eyebrows. "You don't wanna go to the playground?" She shakes her head. "Alright," I say, a bit crestfallen. I was excited about making her happy with a free afternoon to play at the park, but now I can't figure out her mood. This has happened more than once, and to say it's bothering me would be an understatement. She's becoming too much like me already, and she's only in kindergarten. I didn't think this would start until middle school.

We walk down the sidewalk towards the parking lot, and I reach for her hand when it comes time to weave through the cars. I look down as she lifts her arm, then do a double take as I see her normally unblemished skin covered in small, circular bruises.

"Chels," I say, stopping in my tracks and holding her arm up to the light so I can see it better. "Chelsea, what are these marks?"

She doesn't answer. She just stares up at me with her big blue eyes and blinks. For the first time, I have no idea what's going on inside her head and I hate it. I'm terrified of that blankness.

"Chels!" I say, though I know I let my voice get too hysterical. It's hard not to. "Is someone hurting you?" I kneel down and look right into her eyes, holding one tiny hand with both of mine. "Chelsea. Is someone hurting you at school?"

"No," she finally answers, trying to sound earnest. She takes her arm back slowly and shakes her head. "No, mommy."

"What are the bruises from?" I ask. "Chels, tell me where the bruises are from. What happened for you to get these marks all over your arm?"

"I don't know," she whimpers.

"I think you do know," I say, trying to keep calm. "Just tell me, babe. Nothing is bad is gonna happen, I just need you to tell me."

"I don't know, mommy," she insists. "I don't know." Then, she starts to cry.

"Okay," I say, then scoop her up and hold her in my arms on the way to the car. "Alright."

I put her in her car seat and try to convince myself that everything is okay. Maybe nothing happened and she's telling the truth; the fact that I got so worked up is what made her cry. I'm lost in my thoughts as she gathers herself in the back seat, and when we're about halfway home she's completely composed and back to her normal self. "Remember the braid that Jesse did in Mermaid Barbie's hair?" she asks, the subject surfacing out of nowhere.

"Yeah," I say.

"It's still in there after a hundred hours and days passed. It's that good a braid."

"Wow," I say halfheartedly.

"I want him to do braids in all my Barbies," she says. "When are we gonna see him again?"

"I'm not sure, baby."

"When we go clean his work again?" she asks.

"Yeah. Probably."

"I can't wait 'til then, then!" she says excitedly. "I'm gonna bring all my Barbies and- Auntie Chloe!"

"What?" I say, squinting in the rearview. "You're gonna bring…?"

"At our house!" Chelsea says, pointing madly towards the windshield. "Standing outside our 'partment! Auntie Chloe!"

After seeing the shock of red hair and excited waving, I notice that my daughter is right. There's Chloe, standing in front of our apartment complex, smiling as we approach. "Wonder what she's doing here," I muse, then pull into our usual parking spot.

"Auntie Chloe!" Chelsea screams for the thousandth time after she unbuckles and rockets out of her booster seat. She throws open the car door and careens into Chloe's arms, then gets lifted from the ground and swung in a circle.

"Well hello, my most favorite niece!" Chloe says, still hugging my daughter as I lock the car. I shoot her a terse smile and she gives me an unbridled one in return. "And my favorite working woman. Hey, Becs."

"Hey," I say, hitching Chelsea's backpack higher on my shoulder as I lead the way up the stairs. "What're you up to on this side of town?"

She shrugs and kicks her shoes off, instantly getting comfortable even though Chelsea is still hanging off of her. "Coming to visit my faves," she says. "No reason, really. It's not a bad time, is it? I don't have to stay, if it is."

"No, stay!" Chelsea insists. "Stay, stay, stay!"

"Yeah," I say, sighing and pasting on a smile while trying to force Chelsea's bruises out of my mind for the time being. "No, it's fine. I can order a pizza, or something."

"Pizza!" my daughter and Chloe chorus at once.

They sit on the couch in front of the TV while I stand in the kitchen space, looking for the pizza place's phone number. As I'm scrolling, I see Chelsea introducing Chloe to her new Barbies - AKA the ones I picked up at a garage sale this past weekend. She still brags about them, though, and brags about the braid in Mermaid Barbie's hair, too.

"Did Mommy do that?" Chloe asks, just as I'm about to dial the number.

_Shit_, I think. _Shit, shit, shit_.

"No," Chelsea answers. "Jesse did."

"Jessie?" Chloe questions. "Is she a friend at school?"

"No, silly!" Chelsea says, doubling over with laughter. "Mommy's friend Jesse whose office we clean. We see him on Tuesdays! Right, mommy?"

Chloe turns around and her face morphs as she sees the expression on mine. I gave myself away; that much is clear. "You're kidding," Chloe says, eyes wide. "_That _Jesse?"

I nod minutely, then prevent any further questioning by calling the pizza place and raising the phone to my ear. As I order, I half-listen-half-watch Chloe and my daughter talk, and if I had any doubts about Chloe's big mouth before, they're gone now. She spills everything - in a child's terms, of course - about mine and Jesse's past to my little girl. And by the time I hang up the phone, Chelsea is enraptured with her eyebrows raised to the ceiling.

"You and Jesse love each other!" she shrieks, pointing like she's accusing me of something. "Wait," she stops mid-thought. "Were you married in college together?"

"No," I say, eyes wide. "And it's not… we don't love each other anymore, Chels. Not like that. It was a long time ago. He was my boyfriend for a while-"

"Were you his girlfriend?"

"Yes," I answer with a deep inhale. "But it was back then. Not now. Now, we're just friends. Just like you guys are friends."

Chelsea's forehead wrinkles as she thinks some more. She's quiet for a long moment and Chloe looks at me with an apologetic smile, mouthing 'sorry' behind my daughter's head. Then, Chelsea gasps. "He should come to Friendsgiving!" she announces, one finger in the air.

"Chels, no…"

"Chels, yes!" she says, bouncing now. "He's our friend. You just said. And Friendsgiving is a Thanksgiving for friends, like we always do every single year! He has to come. Please, mommy? Please, can he come?"

"I don't know," I say, suddenly feeling very overwhelmed. "He probably has his own plans. He doesn't wanna come hang out with all of us on a holiday."

"But maybe he doesn't have plans!" she says, still hopeful. "Can we please just please ask him, mommy?"

"Doesn't hurt to ask," Chloe adds.

"Yeah," Chelsea says.

"You're not helping," I tell my friend.

"Please, mommy?" Chelsea asks. "I'll do the asking. I'll talk. Please, I just really want him to come."

Then, because I know I won't win this fight with someone somehow more stubborn than me, I give in. "Fine, okay," I say. "But don't get sad when he says no."

…

Chelsea doesn't have to get sad. He says yes.

The next time we go to his office, asking him is the first thing Chelsea does. "Jesse!" she shouts, charging ahead of me, her little feet with the light-up sneakers stomping the ground.

"Chels!" he shouts back, playfully.

"I have a question," she says, talking loud enough that I can hear her from a good distance away. She's breathless from running, but still manages to get the words out. "Every year we always do a Friendsgiving instead of a Thanksgiving at my Auntie Chloe's. Can you come?"

"Can I come?" he echoes. "Whose idea was this? Is it alright with your mom?"

"Yeah," she says. "Please, can you come?"

"I mean…" he says, stumbling over his words a bit. "If it's cool with everyone, I'd love to be there."

"It's cool!" she says with a scream. "It's super cool! Mommy!" She turns around and shrieks my name. "He said he can come! I told you!"

Jesse and I share a look and I can't help but smile. He's always been able to get one out of me. "She told you," Jesse says.

"Guess so," I say, then raise my eyebrows at my daughter. "I have to clean the sound booths and my boss asked that you stay out, little miss. So, don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone."

"I'll keep an eye on her," Jesse says.

I look over to him. "Oh, you don't have to," I say, somewhat concerned. "Shouldn't you be doing… your own work?"

The apples of his cheeks flush a bit, hearing that. "Don't know what you're talking about," he says jokingly. "Work? What's that?"

"Yeah, what's that?" Chelsea says, giggling as she takes Jesse by the hand - the size difference is adorable. "Come on, Jesse. I have to show you my new Barbies."

"Be good!" I shout after them, getting a good grip on my cleaning cart as I take it inside the booths.

It takes me a while to finish everything that needs to be done - there are a lot of intricate areas to be perfected, and my hands are sore by the time I'm done. And when I'm finally back out, the main office is eerily quiet. "Chels?" I call out, dragging the cart as usual. "Chelsea-bear?"

I come around the corner to find Jesse sitting on the floor in a conference room, an array of Barbies surrounding him. "Shh," he says. "She fell asleep."

"Oh," I say, stopping in my tracks as I see Chelsea curled up under the long table. "Oh, good."

He smiles gently, then looks up at me before standing. He brushes himself off and lingers between the two of us, wondering what to do with himself. "Tired herself out with all the Barbie talk, I guess," he says, chuckling.

"Yeah. Once she gets going, it's hard to get her to stop," I say fondly. "She's my chatterbox. It surprises people."

"Why's that?" he asks.

I laugh breathily and make a face like he should find it obvious. "Because she's so open and chatty and I'm so… me? I guess?"

The corners of his mouth turn down as he shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "Those people just don't know you well enough, then. Get you talking about the right thing, with the right people? Jesus, good luck ever getting a word in edgewise."

I can't help but grin. "Whatever," I say.

"Those tangents you used to go on when you were tipsy? Wish I would've recorded them," he says, continuing. "I could get you started on _anything_ and you'd just go. And go. And go."

"Shut up," I say. "You're such a liar."

"No," he says, egging me on. "One time you talked for a full 45 whole minutes about the difference between butter and margarine. I'm not kidding."

"I did not," I say, sitting in a rolling chair that's far enough away from Chelsea so my voice won't wake her. It won't anyway; she's like me in the respect that she's a very heavy sleeper. Once she's out, there's no going back.

Luckily, Jesse picks up the hint and sits in the chair adjacent, facing me. "You so did," he says, and our knees bump each other ever-so-slightly. Neither of us do anything to change our position, either. I like the contact. Back when we were together, we were the type of couple that was always touching. Before him, I hated seeing that in people. I always wondered what was so wrong with having a little personal space. But when Jesse came into my life, personal space stopped existing. I caught on pretty fast to the fact that physical contact was how he expressed his love, and at first it was a lot for me to handle. I was never someone who enjoyed being touched. But he changed that, along with many other things, about me. Whether it was holding hands while we watched a movie with our friends, one of us rifling fingers through the other's hair, or simply leaning against his side, we always found a way to link. Right now, I can't help but be reminded of it.

We're quiet for a moment as our kneecaps rest against each other, and though he's looking at me, I can't look back. It's too intense; I feel laid bare under his eyes. He's always had that ability - to be able to look right through me. It's disarming, that's for sure.

"I wanna tell you something Chelsea said," he whispers a bit later. "But I don't want you to freak out."

Instantly, my calm demeanor changes and I'm on alert. I sit up straighter and lean in, saying, "Was it about Luke?"

"No," he says, running his top teeth over his lower lip. "I don't really remember how the subject came up. It was kinda out of nowhere. I just listened and let her talk because I didn't want her to shut down or anything." He's always been good at that - listening with no other motives. He used to be the only person I would open up to because I knew he wouldn't judge me. Chelsea clearly had the same gut feeling that I always did; that Jesse can be trusted.

"Okay…"

"She's having issues with a boy at school," he says slowly, maintaining eye contact the entire time. "It sounds like it started with the run-of-the-mill teasing, normal stuff. But she told me about times where he's purposefully excluded her from people who she thought were her friends. Called her names, pushed her down. Pinched her."

I feel the color drain from my face as realization sinks in. "The bruises," I say, my throat clogging. I can't remember the last time I cried, but tears are imminent. It was happening right there in front of me, and I did nothing to stop it. What happened to mother's intuition? Where was mine when I needed it? Chelsea was being hurt and I allowed it. What does that say about me as a mother? As a person in general? "Fuck." My voice breaks and the first tear falls, and as I close my eyes, Jesse reaches and takes one of my hands, holding just tight enough. "I asked," I croak, sniffling. "But she wouldn't tell me."

He strokes my knuckles with his thumb as I cry. I don't look up, but I let the tears fall. I know there's no stopping them, anyway. "She didn't tell you because she didn't want you to feel any more afraid," he says. "Those were her words. I think she thought she could handle it on her own." He smiles sadly. "Sound familiar?"

I let my head hang lower. Have I taught my daughter to be an island? "I can't believe I didn't just... know," I say.

"You would've figured it out eventually," he says.

"But would it have been too late?" I ask. "This little shit has already made her not want to go to school. She's so depressed when I pick her up. He probably tortures her all day. Did you get a name?" He shakes his head. "I'll figure it out. I'll…" I stand up from the chair and my hand slips from his. "I'm gonna figure it out."

"Bec," he says, stopping me in my tracks. "It's past 9."

"And?"

"It can wait 'til tomorrow," he says, voice soothing.

I take a look at my daughter, still sleeping soundly under the table surrounded by a myriad of dolls - everyone's hair braided. Even her own. I let out an errant sob and press my back against the wall, sliding down until my knees are drawn up and I can wrap my arms around them. Without waiting, Jesse comes to join me, sitting beside me so our legs touch. "It kills me," I whimper, chin resting atop one knee as I still look at her. I shake my head and press my eyes shut tight, feeling tears leak out. "I can't stand the thought. That last night with Luke… she saw what happened. She saw him lay hands on me. And now someone is doing it to her."

"It's not the same."

"But it basically is," I say. "Abuse is a cycle. By seeing it, she thinks it's normal."

"Have you talked to her about what happened? What she saw?"

"Yeah," I say truthfully. "Although I never know what to say about Luke. He's her dad… and it always killed me when my parents would shit talk each other. He's a bad guy. I know that. He's a drunk and he's violent but when he was sober and actually around, he was good to her." My chin wobbles and I start to cry harder, then feel Jesse slowly wrap an arm around my shoulders. It's comforting and makes me feel safe, so I lean into him. He smells the same as he always did. Woodsy and clean. "I know she misses him. She talks to the dolls about him sometimes, but always stops when I come in the room, like she thinks she'll get in trouble. And… it's just all…" I take a deep breath and let it out, deflating. "I don't know."

He rubs my back and I lean closer, resting my full weight against him. He rests his cheek against the top of my head and doesn't say anything because he doesn't have to. His presence is enough.

"Everything is just so hard," I say.

"I know."

"It was so much easier with you."

I think the statement takes him by surprise, because a beat passes before he answers. But he does. He presses a soft kiss to the top of my hair, then says, "I know."

…

There's only one day left until Thanksgiving break, so I surprise Chelsea and keep her home from school. We work on preparing what we've been assigned for Friendsgiving dinner, and crank up the music loud. Even though I'm not the biggest fan of Christmas music before Thanksgiving, I can't help but smile as she sings along - completely off-key - to Frosty the Snowman.

I watch my daughter closely and soak in her happiness, allowing her to eat the batter and become covered in flour. I don't police our mess, I just let it happen. My mood is only dampened when it comes time to mix the batter with our hands. Hers are already messy, so I go to roll up her sleeves and come across the same bruises I saw before. She watches me notice them and I take a deep breath, trying to piece together the words I want to use. I don't want to scare her, ruin the mood, or betray she and Jesse's trust, but I do want to let her know that I'll always protect her, no matter what.

"I'm gonna do something about this," I assure her, holding both of her hands. I look to the bruises first, then meet her eyes. I know she knows what I mean.

It's enough. After that small moment, our day is back to business as usual. We finish the pumpkin pie, the green bean casserole (which is only a little burnt) and the chocolate chip cookies. Chelsea is stuffed full with batter and once everything is wrapped up and ready to take to Chloe's, we can relax. We fall asleep on the couch watching A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, and it feels like everything might be finally, slowly coming together.

…

The next day, we show up at Chloe's toting everything we worked so hard making yesterday. "My faves are here!" Chloe sings, opening the door to present her exquisitely-decorated house. It looks like she pulled the inside straight from Pinterest. Every inch is covered in subtle Thanksgiving decorations, and it looks amazing. "Happy Friendsgiving!"

"Friendsgiving!" Chelsea repeats, then steps inside with her black Mary-Jane shoes. On top, she's wearing a brown dress with a white collar, which was a gift from my dad. I told him it looked like something a pilgrim would wear, but she loves it. So, it got worn. I French braided her hair, and though she said Jesse could probably do better, she deemed it acceptable at the very least.

"You both look adorable," Chloe says, taking the food as we enter the kitchen. "And you're the first ones here."

"I thought you said 3," I say, looking around at her still-empty house. I can hear her husband upstairs, probably getting ready, as she turns around with a wide smile.

"Well, you're always late. We're gonna start at 4… so, I maybe told you a little early?"

"Chloe."

"You got here at 3:34!" she says. "So, excuse me for being right."

I shake my head and sigh, but Chelsea and I soon busy ourselves with helping her get set up. By the time 4pm rolls around, everyone else starts arriving - all of the Bellas, who happen to be obsessed with my child. Of course, she feels the same way about them and absolutely loves the attention, soaking it up whenever they're around. I lose track of her by the time they all arrive because she's too busy working the room, but that's fine with me.

"So, how've you two been?" Chloe asks as we put the final touches on the dining room.

"Fine," I say.

"Just fine?"

"Yeah," I say. "Chels has been having some problems at school, and-"

"Jesse!" Chelsea shouts from a couple rooms away.

I pick up my head and look Chloe in the eyes to find hers glinting. She nods towards the door wearing a smirk, then says, "Go say hi."

"I hate you," I grumble, but don't waste time. I walk out of the dining room and into the foyer, where Jesse is just coming through the door and taking off his coat. Chelsea has already taken the dish he brought, which looks like some sort of dessert.

"Everybody's already here!" Chelsea says. "You're the last one. We waited for you!"

"Well, geez, I didn't mean to be late," he says. "I thought the time was sort of a loose thing."

"With Chloe, never," I say, then smile. "Hey."

"Hey," he says, returning the grin. "You look nice."

"Thanks. So do you." It's not just a pleasantry, it's true. Dressed in dark jeans and a crisp, blue flannel, he looks every bit festive and attractive. I haven't felt the pull that I feel towards him in years and years. I used to love it when he wore blue. I can't help but wonder if he did it on purpose.

"Mommy braided my hair today," Chelsea says, cutting through our shared moment. "But you can probably do it better. Right? Will you?"

"It looks nice, Chels," Jesse says, smoothing his hand over the top of the braid. "Your mom did a good job."

"Yeah, but you're the most awesome braider," she says. "I want you to do it."

"Chels," I say. "Let him get in the door." He smiles and I smile back, seemingly unable to stop. "Wanna bring that into the kitchen? Me and Chloe were just finishing up."

"Sure."

I lead the way there and Chloe is waiting for us with a Cheshire-cat-esque grin. "Hi, Jesse," she says, giving him a big hug. "It's been forever! You haven't changed a bit."

"You haven't, either," he says lightly. "Thanks for having me, by the way. Where should I put this?"

"Anywhere," she says. "And this is your spot right here." She pats the back of a wooden chair at the table. "Right next to Beca! I can't wait. This is gonna be so fun."

When everyone is gathered around the table with enough food on our plates to feed an army, there's a pleasant rise and fall of voices in the room. There's a lot of people shoved in a small space, so mine and Jesse's elbows bump every so often. We catch each other's eye when it happens, but neither of us mind. If I were a little bolder, I might even take his hand under the table. But not only am I certain that all the Bellas would overreact, I don't know if I'm ready for something like that. My heart tells me that yes, I am, but my brain says otherwise. My brain says _run_.

Chelsea finishes eating first, of course, because all she does is pick around the mashed potatoes. She gets down from the table and goes to find her Barbies, and I can hear the rise and fall of her voice from the front room. It's a comfort, a backdrop to all the important people in my life in one place.

But then, the air changes as the front door comes open. Chloe doesn't hear it, but I do. "Is someone else coming?" I ask curiously, and Chloe breaks from her conversation with Aubrey to tell me that she's not expecting anyone.

Then, everything shatters. Chelsea's voice cuts through the din and instead of comforting me like before, the word she shouts makes my gut twist and Jesse plant his hand protectively on my knee.

"Daddy!"


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey, kiddo! Where is everybody? Huh?"

I lose feeling in the tips of my fingers and can't move from the spot I'm rooted in. The only thought swirling in my mind, the only one that has made its way through, is _I hate when he calls her 'kiddo.'_

"Hello?" Luke calls out, his voice friendly and boisterous.

"Daddy, look! Mommy got me three new Barbies."

Hearing Chelsea's voice a second time makes me shove my chair away from the table and stand up roughly, walking into a storm I thought I'd fled. But she's in there with him, and I have to get her out. Get him away from her and away from this house where I thought I'd found solace with a peaceful holiday for the first time in forever.

When I get up, Jesse and Chloe stand, too, almost as if on cue. We don't say anything - no one does. The rest of the Bellas don't know the backstory between me and Luke, but I assume it's not hard to figure out with the way I'm acting. Not even Amy, who's known for her horrible timing, speaks.

"Chelsea," I call, a warning. It goes ignored, though, because Luke has gone on a tangent.

"Three new Barbies, huh?" he says, just as I round the corner. I sense Jesse and Chloe behind me, prickling and ready to leap into action. "Well, how about this? I got you a brand-spankin'-new Barbie. Not even out of her box yet. Have you ever had one of those?" I catch sight of Luke just as he pulls an ostentatious box out of his messenger bag with an untouched doll inside. It's one of those collector's items that I've always deemed unnecessary. Chelsea is rough with her toys. She's going to rip that thing out of the box and destroy it - what was the sense on spending so much money on it? But for Luke, sense wasn't part of the equation. All that mattered was winning her over and one-upping me, which have both been achieved.

"Whoa!" she exclaims, taking the box with both hands and staring at it with wide, amazed eyes. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! I never even had a fancy one like this before! Whoa, whoa!" She looks at Luke, still gripping the box with everything she has. "Thank you, daddy! Thank you, thank you! This is the most awesome thing ever!" Then, her eyes land on me. "Look, mommy!" she cheers, running over. "Look at how fancy Barbie is! Daddy me her. Can you help me open the box?"

"Hey, Chels," Cynthia Rose beckons from the dining room. "Why don't you come in here and we'll help you with that box?"

I thank her silently, closing my eyes for a long beat as Chelsea scampers a few rooms away, accompanied by women who will keep her away from the mess that's inevitably about to occur.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, finally gathering the courage to speak. Luke looks the same as the last time I saw him; equally as disheveled with an unstable look in his eye. There's something not right about him, and it makes me uneasy. Like he could lash out at any moment. I find myself shrinking back, folding into myself. I don't want what happened last time to happen again - though I don't think he would get rough with me in front of all these people, I'm not sure what he's capable of.

"It's Friendsgiving," he answers with a casual shrug and smile. "We come to Chloe's every year. Figured that just because I didn't get a formal invite didn't mean I wasn't welcome."

"That's exactly what it meant," Chloe says, stepping in. "Get out, Luke."

He shoots her a strange, amused look. "I came here to talk to my wife," he says. "It doesn't involve you."

"You're in my house, so it does," she says, standing her ground. "I'd like you to leave. Beca doesn't want to talk to you."

"Why don't we let her speak for herself?" he challenges, coming a bit closer. Then, he lifts his eyes away from me so they rest on Jesse, who's standing at my side. Too close for friendship, and Luke knows it. "Oh, I see what's going on," he says, chuckling as he shakes his head. "The boyfriend is back. Was this your plan all along?"

"Stop," I say weakly, then feel sick over how pathetic my voice sounds. I'm stronger than this. Why does he lessen me to such a shell? Why do I allow myself to be so scared of him?

"You always did have a soft spot for the bastard, didn't you?" he says, the sugar-sweetness disappearing from his voice. "For what reason, I'll never know." He walks towards Jesse, but Jesse doesn't back down, in fact, he meets him right in the middle. "Are you fucking my wife?" he asks, sardonic smile still on his face.

"No," Jesse answers calmly. "But even so, she's not your wife. And she asked you to leave."

Luke raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Oh, are you pissed?" he says, then laughs. "Do something about it. Are you gonna hit me?"

"No," Jesse says, jaw clenched. "But you need to leave. I heard what you did, and if you don't get out, I'm gonna call the police."

"Heard what I did?" Luke says, getting angry as he makes eye contact with me. "Beca, are you telling our business to this asshole? Why would you do that? Do you think I go parading around telling people shit about _you_?"

I cross my arms and duck my head, strength wavering. "You hit me," I murmur.

"When?" he says. "Come on, when? Give me one time I hit you and I'll lay off." I don't respond right away, so he continues. "That's what I thought, you fuckin' liar. Anything to get attention and paint me in a bad light. That's fuckin' typical. You're such a bitch."

"Hey!" Jesse says, stepping towards Luke to get him away from me.

Luke shoves Jesse's chest and makes him take a stutter step back, and I gasp because of it. I can't handle a physical fight, not after everything that's happened. "I know you two are fucking," Luke sneers. "You have been for years, haven't you? That's why you wanted out. God, I'm so stupid."

Jesse pulls out his phone and brings up the dial pad, pushing '911' with his thumb poised over the green button. "I'm calling the police," he says. "If your ass isn't out of here in five seconds."

"I'm really glad you have him to protect you, Beca," Luke says, flashing an artificial smile. "That's so great for you and Chels. Speaking of Chels, have you brainwashed her with all this shit yet? Does she call him 'daddy'?"

"Fuck you," I say, but I wish it were stronger.

"Luke, you need to go!" Chloe shrills, then walks to the door and opens it wide so he has plenty of space to exit. "Leave, now! You're not welcome here now or ever." Luke stands in place, staring me down with those ice blue eyes, and I can't break from his gaze. Chloe's voice splits the moment, though, when she says, "Jesse, do it. Call."

"Don't fuckin' call," Luke says, finally moving as he walks backwards, eyes still cemented on me. "I'm fuckin' going. You don't need to make a big production out of it. I just wanted to come and see my kid, see my wife on a holiday. But if you guys can't play nice, I'll leave."

"She's not your wife," Jesse says, ushering Luke towards the open door.

"Right, 'cause she's yours," Luke says. "Don't forget me when you send out the wedding invites. Don't worry, mate, she'll make shit up about you someday, too. Then maybe we can have a drink and talk about it."

"Burn in hell," Jesse says.

"Oh!" Luke laughs. "Alrighty, then. Guess I'll be going." He clears his throat and shouts, "Bye, Chelsea! I can't stay, sweetie, Mommy is making me leave!" And before she can run into the room to refute it, he walks out and Chloe shuts the door behind him.

I stand rigid until the car drives away, then collapse onto the couch as soon as Chelsea runs in. "Where's Daddy?" she asks, new Barbie in hand.

I can't answer her. My mind is blank and I'm rattled - literally shaking. Jesse sits next to me and winds an arm around my shoulders, and tears stream effortlessly down my cheeks.

"Mommy, where's Daddy?" Chelsea asks again. "Did you make him leave?"

"Chels, honey, come on. Let's go back to the dining room," Chloe says gently.

But, stubborn as she is, Chelsea doesn't move. "Why'd you make him go?" she insists. "He's nice now! Why'd you make him go if he's nice now?" Her face crumples and all I can do is stare. I have no answers. "It's all your fault," Chelsea says, then turns around and storms back into the other room like Chloe had suggested.

"She doesn't know what she's saying," Chloe tells me, but her words fall on deaf ears. I try to nod anyway, but my entire body is trembling and I'm not sure if it's discernible.

"Hey, it's alright," Jesse says, rubbing the outside of my arm slowly, rhythmically. He looks up at Chloe and mutters, "Maybe some water would help."

"Sure," she says, then rushes to get it.

"He's gone," Jesse assures me after a silence has fallen over the room. "You know that, right?" I nod again as best I can. "Okay. Good." He shakes his head. "God, I'm so sorry that happened. I can still call the police, if you want."

"I don't know."

"Okay," he says. "We don't have to figure it out right now."

Then, Chloe comes back with a small glass of water that she hands over. Jesse keeps his arm around me as I try to drink it, but I'm still shaking so badly that a lot of it misses the mark and ends up splashing my chest, dampening my shirt. "Shit," I mutter.

"It's okay," Chloe says, taking the glass. "Maybe you should lay down for a while. Jesse, do you wanna maybe take her upstairs? My guest bedroom is all made up. Becs, you could-"

"No," I say. "Thank you, but no. I just… I wanna get Chelsea and go home."

Chloe gives me a wary look that I can feel. "I don't know if you're in the greatest shape to drive right now," she says.

"I'm fine," I say. "I just wanna get out of here. I'll feel better at home. Where's Chels?"

"Beca…"

"Hey, why don't you let me drive you," Jesse suggests gently. "Just to be safe. I'll put Chelsea to bed so you can regroup. If you want."

I look at him, disarmed. But I surprise myself by answering affirmatively with, "Sure."

"Alright," he says, somewhat taken aback. "Yeah, good. Um, so we should find Chelsea. You just wait here, okay? I can get her."

I sit on the couch and disappear inside my head as Jesse gathers my indignant daughter, somehow getting her into her shoes and coat before I'm even in mine. By the time we're all heading out the door, I'm worrying about what the rest of the Bellas must be thinking. I know Chloe will do damage control and explain what needs to be explained - nothing else - but still, the feeling isn't good. All the embarrassing and shameful parts of my life were just broadcasted for them all to see and judge. Not that I think they would judge me, but I don't like showing my vulnerability so forcefully.

Jesse drives my car and I don't bother asking how he plans on getting back to his. I'm sure we'll figure it out, but I don't have the space to think about it right now. Chelsea buckles herself into her booster seat surrounded by Barbies, including the fancy one that Luke got her. I let my eyes linger on her and she looks back, but her eyes don't hold anger anymore. I'm not sure what's inside them, and I don't like the feeling of not knowing. It's becoming too common.

"You're mad at Daddy," Chelsea states as we back out of the driveway. "And he made you sad. That's why we have to leave. Right?"

I nod slowly, still swiveled to look at her. She runs one hand over the new Barbie's shiny, un-matted hair. I wonder how long it will take for the pristine state of it to change.

"Why were you fighting with him?" she asks.

I bite the inside of my lip and wonder how to explain this. I take a deep breath and promise myself that, for her, I'll try my best. She deserves to know the truth, or at least a version that she can handle. "Your dad and I aren't good together anymore," I say. "He makes bad choices and those choices scare me. I don't want him around you when he's making those choices, because they affect you. And what I care about most in the world is keeping you safe."

She meets my eyes steadily and I expect either a rebuttal or more questioning, but instead she nods and says, "Okay."

I study her for a beat longer, wondering what could possibly be going on in her head. "Are you okay?" I ask her.

"Yeah."

"Are you sure? Did your daddy scare you?"

She shakes her head then holds up the doll. "He gave me this."

"I know," I say, then turn around to face forward with my chin resting on my closed fist. I stare out the front windshield and let Chelsea's voice wander to the back of my mind as she talks to her dolls, only listening actively when she addresses Jesse.

"Jesse," she says. "You know what?"

"Hmm?"

"Auntie Chloe told me all about how you and my mom used to love each other when you were in college. Is that real?"

If Jesse is caught off guard, his voice doesn't show it. "Yeah," he says, not missing a beat. "She wouldn't lie to you."

"My mom was your girlfriend?"

"She was," he says.

"You were her boyfriend?"

"Yep."

"Did you like being her boyfriend?"

"I sure did," he says, and if I'm not mistaken, I hear him smile.

"Does that mean you loved her?"

"Yeah, for sure," he says.

"Lots?"

"Tons."

"Did she love you back like that?"

He glances my way, but I don't look back. I'm in too much pain wondering about what could've, might've been, had life not taken its twists and turns. "Well, you'll have to ask her that," he says. "When she feels up to answering."

"Mommy, did you love Jesse? Lots and lots, or just a little?"

I look towards him with only my eyes to find his still on me. We lock gazes and don't smile, but the expression on his face is warm. I have no idea what mine is. "I loved him a lot," I tell her.

"Like you used to love Daddy, too?"

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Different," I say. "In a very different way."

…

When we walk in the door, a whole new wave of emotion hits and I start to cry again. I try to hide it; I don't like to cry around Chelsea, but she notices anyway.

"Mommy, you're crying," she says, pressing her hands to my stomach and peering up at me. "Don't cry. Are you sad 'cause of Daddy?" I sniffle to try and compose myself, but it doesn't quite work. I cover my mouth with one hand and make eye contact with my daughter, finding her gaze incredibly worried. "It's okay, mommy," she says. "Don't be sad. Stop crying."

"I'm fine," I say, wiping beneath my eyes and smiling, probably doing a horrible job of convincing her that there's any validity behind my words. "I'm fine, I promise."

She eyes me for a long moment, then Jesse lays a hand on her shoulder. "I was hoping I could read to you tonight," he says, raising his eyebrows. "You think that would be okay?"

"Can you put a braid in my hair, too?" she asks hopefully.

"Whatever you want," he agrees.

"Yay! Let's go!" she says, then leads the way down the hall.

"I'm gonna jump in the shower," I tell Jesse before he follows her. "Just real quick."

"Take your time," he says. "I got her."

I nod, grateful he said that. "Okay."

I linger in the bathroom before turning on the water, eyes on my reflection as I listen to the rise and fall of Jesse and Chelsea's voices in her bedroom. I can still remember being in this position after the first time he put his hands on me; making eye contact with myself and wondering how I could let things get as bad as they did. That time, he had gripped my wrist so tightly that there was a bruise in the shape of a hand, and it was a bitch to cover up every morning. I look at my wrist now and can still remember exactly how it looked during each stage of healing. First black and purple, then blue, then green and yellow as it faded.

"Jesse," Chelsea asks quietly, but it's impossible not to hear everything in our tiny apartment. "Is Mommy okay?"

The bed squeaks as I assume Jesse gets comfortable on it. I can picture them sitting side-by-side, resting against the headboard with picture books open on their laps. "Yeah," he says comfortingly. "She's gonna be fine. She just needs a little time. In the morning, she'll be good as new."

"Okay," she says, pausing. "Is she sad because my dad came to Friendsgiving?"

"Yeah," Jesse says.

"He always came before, though," Chelsea says. "But it was bad this time?"

Jesse takes a deep inhale. "Like she said…" he begins. "Your dad has done things that scare her. And she wants the best for the both of you. She loves you so much, Chels."

"I know."

"Good. I'm glad you know."

"But my daddy got me a Barbie, though," she says, still confused. "If he's mean, why would he do a nice thing?"

"I think it's more complicated than that," he says. "It was nice of him to bring you that, you're right. But he didn't ask if he could come. It was a bad surprise."

"Oh."

"If he would've asked, it might've turned out better."

"Mommy would say no."

"Hmm?"

"Mommy would tell him that he couldn't come," she says logically. "Because he's scary to her. And I wish he didn't come because he made Mommy cry. I don't like that."

"Yeah, me neither."

"Is she better now?"

"I think she's getting there."

With that, I turn the shower on and wait a few minutes as it heats up. Then, I step under the water and cover my face with my hands, taking deep breaths as I allow the day to wash off my skin and rinse down the drain. It's refreshing to think of it like that; when I step out, I'll be fresh from the scene earlier. I'll be removed from it.

It does feel somewhat like that when I come out, towel wrapped around my body as I make my way from the bathroom into my bedroom. On the way, I see Jesse lingering in the entryway, and his eyes catch on me as I pass. "She's out," he says. "She was super tired."

"Oh," I say. "Good."

"So…" he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and nodding towards the door. "I'll get out of your hair. You probably want some time alone."

"No," I say quickly, surprising myself. "I, um… no, actually." I clear my throat. "If you don't have anything else to do, um… would you mind staying?"

"Of course not," he says, taking his shoes back off. "Yeah, no. I'd love to."

"Okay," I say. "I'm just gonna get changed then."

I smile to myself as I put my pajamas on and brush out my wet hair. In some ways, Jesse acts the same as he did when we were in college. Unassuming, conscientious and somewhat like a puppy. We're such opposites of each other, but I remember exactly how it felt to fall in love with him. It was so easy.

I open my bedroom door back up when I'm dressed and wave him in. He chuckles softly and says, "Do you still use the same shampoo as before?"

I look at him with amused fascination. "How do you know that?" I ask.

"I can smell it," he says, then blinks hard before opening his eyes wide. "It's really taking me back."

"Is it?"

He nods. "Mm-hmm. The guys would always give me shit when I'd come home after being at your place for a while, saying I smelled all girly."

"Such assholes," I laugh, shaking my head.

"They were jealous," he says. "None of them could stay with a girl for longer than a month. Me and you held the record."

"We were together for a while, yeah," I say. "It was nice."

"Yeah," he says, making eye contact. "It was."

We're quiet for a moment before I break the silence with a small laugh. "You always hogged the bed, though," I say.

"What?"

I laugh again. "When you'd stay over all those nights. I slept like shit because you never gave me any space."

"It was a twin bed!" he says, smiling.

"Not the point," I say. "You'd have a ton of room over on your side, yet you'd have your whole body wrapped around mine. I'm surprised I didn't suffocate."

"Oh, shut up," he says. "You loved it." I shrug playfully in response. "I just liked being close to you. You can't fault me for that."

"No, I guess I can't," I say, softer now. I look over again and find him chewing on his lip, wondering what to say or how to say it. I know, because I'm in the same boat. And for once, I'm going to do something about it. "I get it, though," I say.

"Get what?"

"Wanting to be close," I say, testing the waters. "Because I wanna be close to you now." As soon as I say it, what I thought I was so brazen for, my face turns red and my throat tightens. My chest gets heavy and I wonder why I allowed those words to come out. "Jesus, I'm sorry," I say. "I sound like an ass. We don't… please, just forget I said that."

"You don't have to apologize," he says." I feel the same way. I miss you, Bec."

We make prolonged eye contact and my eyebrows lift as I feel how sincere his words are. He really means what he's saying; his whole heart is in it. "I miss you, too," I say, and this time I don't regret it.

"I can stay tonight, if..." he says. "If that's something you'd want… I don't know. I don't have to."

"I want you to," I say, then look to the bed. "And the bed's a little bigger now." He laughs, tension broken, and I continue with, "You don't feel weird about it, do you?"

"No, not at all," he says. "Why? Do you?"

I shake my head. "No," I say. "We just have to make sure you're up and out before Chels gets up. That would just be too confusing for her."

"Right, yeah. Of course."

I settle into bed on the side that's familiar and he gets under the covers on the other, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt. It's a little awkward at first, finding him under the blankets, but once I allow my brain to turn off and my body to take over, it comes as naturally as it always did. He wraps his arms around me and I rest my head in the crook of his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat as it lulls me to sleep. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I fall asleep feeling safe.

…

In the morning, Jesse gets up before the sun and although it's obvious he's trying not to wake me, he does anyway. He slowly unravels his body from mine and stands up, and I roll onto my back as he does. "Oh," he whispers through the darkness. "You're up."

"Mmm," I murmur, eyes half-lidded as I watch him pull on his jeans. His belt clinks softly, such a domestic and familiar sound. I like it.

"You should go back to sleep," he says once his pants are buttoned and zipped. "It's still early."

"I will," I say, blinking slow. "Thanks for staying."

"Of course," he says, then turns to face me after putting his wallet in his pocket. "Are you gonna be okay today?"

"Yeah," I say. "I'm gonna try to talk to Chels about things."

"Good," he says. "I'll text after work to check in on you guys."

"You should come over for dinner," I say, eyes still on him. "We can order something."

"Yeah?"

I nod, eyes closing for a long moment before they come open again. "Yeah."

"Sounds good," he says. "I'll do that." Then, he does something that neither of us expect. He braces one hand on the mattress and uses the other to brush hair out of my face, then kisses me. It's soft and sweet, just slow enough, and if anything - routine. After he pulls away, I'm taken aback yet completely calm. I have no idea what to think. "Oh," he says, realizing what he did. "I didn't… it just…"

I don't let him finish. Instead, I cup both sides of his face to bring him back, pressing my lips to his for a second time. This time, we let the kiss linger and melt into each other, and when we pull away, I tuck my face into his neck and give him a big hug. "Have a good day at work," I mutter, voice still raspy. "I'll see you tonight."

"Yeah," he says, eyes shining as he stands up straight. "Yes, you will."

…

Later that day, Chelsea sits on my lap facing me, listening as I try to give her an explanation in terms she can understand. "I'm not sorry that I met your daddy because being with him gave me you," I say, tucking hair behind her ears. "And you are the best thing that ever happened to me. In my _whole_ life." She smiles. "But me and your dad aren't going to be together anymore, and being around him doesn't make me happy. It makes me sad, mad, and scared."

She nods gravely, eyes wide. "Because he hitted you before."

My heart splinters hearing her say those words, but I have to keep going. "Yes," I say. "And it's never, ever okay to hit somebody. Or hurt them in any way, no matter what. Violence isn't the answer to any question. It's always wrong."

"You can't hurt somebody that you love," she says.

"You shouldn't hurt _anyone_," I say with emphasis. "Hitting is never okay. Or physically hurting someone at all. Daddy was very wrong and I gave him a lot of time to change. Too much time, really. I didn't want him to hurt you, ever. That's why we had to leave."

"Is he going to come and get you?" she asks.

I shake my head. "No. He could get in a lot of trouble if he comes around us again." That's not exactly true yet, but I plan on getting a restraining order as soon as I can. It'll make both of us feel better.

"Okay."

I take a deep breath. "Someday, if you wanna see your daddy and I know that he's not drinking alcohol anymore and he's in a better state of mind, that might be able to happen. But we'll just have to talk about it later, okay? Right now, I don't think it's a good idea for you to spend time with him."

"Okay."

"I'm sorry, Chels," I say. "That you had to see all of this. I know it's hard. I saw my parents go through a lot of hard times, and it made me really sad inside when I was a kid. So, I want you to know that you can always talk to me. About anything."

"Okay," she says, then rubs the arm that's covered in bruises. It takes her a long time to speak, but she eventually does. "It's not okay to hurt anybody ever?" she asks, voice having grown much quieter.

"Never," I say solidly.

Then, she starts to cry. Big, fat tears roll down her face as her mouth turns down, then she collapses against my chest limply, still sobbing. "This boy Kaleb hurts me at school," she cries. "He pinches me all the time and sometimes twists my arm back. He pulls my hair and pushes me down and doesn't let me talk to my friends." She can barely catch her breath she's so upset, and I'm upset, too - albeit in a much different way.

"His name is Kaleb, you said?"

She nods and pushes her face closer to my neck, wrapping her arms around me tightly. I rub her back and hug her close, then listen to her say, "I don't want him to keep being mean to me. I don't want to see him ever again."

"I'm gonna fix it," I promise her. "I won't let him hurt you anymore."

…

I send Chelsea to school the next day and go to the main office for my appointment with the principal. I'm intimidated as I sit in the plastic chairs in front of the secretary's desk, like I'm a child in trouble. Chairs a lot like these were a place I often found myself while I was in elementary school, and being back isn't the greatest feeling.

When the principal, Mr. Lyons, welcomes me into his office, I feel even smaller. He shakes my hand and I smile cordially and sit up straight, knowing instantly that I should've worn something more businesslike. All I have on are jeans and a long-sleeved shirt; it isn't good enough. "Mrs. Mitchell, it's good to meet you," he says.

"Ms.," I correct.

"Excuse me," he says. "Ms. What brought you in today? I heard there might be a complaint about bullying in your daughter's classroom?"

"Yes, I-"

"I want to assure you that as a school system, we make sure our students are happy and healthy," he says. "We want school to be a safe place for them. So, the fact that there's talk of bullying is just… outlandish to me."

"Well, there's not just talk," I say, skin prickling. "It's happening."

He folds his hands on top of the desk and leans forward, eyebrows creasing. "If you could explain," he says.

I clear my throat and try to seem as confident as I wish I was. "There's a boy in my daughter, Chelsea's, class. His name is Kaleb; I don't know a last name. But I'm sure he wouldn't be hard to locate. In pre-k, Chelsea loved school. She would look forward to going every day and be just as happy when I picked her up, and that's not the case anymore. She dreads coming to school and she's sullen and depressed at the end of the day. And before Thanksgiving break, she had bruises on her arms that I eventually figured out came from Kaleb pinching her."

"You figured it out, or did Chelsea actually tell you?"

"She told me," I retort quickly, frowning. "She told me that he pinches her, pushes her, twists her arm, excludes her from friends. And that's just not right. I want my daughter to be happy at school, and that's not the case currently. She has it rough enough, being that her father is no longer in the picture."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah, well…" I trail off without much to say on the matter. "The point is that I want her to be happy and she's not. I want the bully taken out of her class."

The principal looks at me for a long moment before speaking again. "How old did you say your daughter was?" he asks. "What grade?"

"She's five," I say. "Kindergarten."

He nods slowly. "I see," he says. "Well, the good news is that occurrences like this are common. Your daughter is getting acclimated to a brand new way of attending school, Mrs. Mitchell. It's a lot to handle for kiddos who are used to half a day. The reason she's so tired at pickup is because she's mentally drained. It'll take a few more months for her to get used to the schedule, but it'll happen. As for the bullying you spoke of, I'm not sure that's the correct term to use. It sounds like playground roughhousing to me." He pauses. "Does Chelsea have any siblings?"

I cross my arms and say, "No."

He nods like he's realized something insightful. "All of this is just her way of getting used to dynamics with other children. It can be a lot to get used to for both mom and child, I understand. I can understand why you would be-"

"But you don't understand," I say, and my voice trembles despite myself. "My daughter is getting hurt here at school. Where she's supposed to be safest."

"I can assure you, she's safe," he says. "It's a transitional period. There are bound to be bumps in the road."

"This isn't a bump," I say, growing firmer.

He sighs and looks me right in the eyes. "You mentioned her father being out of the picture as of late. Could it be possible that this is her way of acting out, her way of asking for attention without verbally asking?"

"No!" I explode, standing up from my chair. I try to rein myself in, but I'm nearing the point of no return. "You're not listening. Are you going to take that terror out of her classroom or not?"

"I'm afraid that's not quite how things work here," he says. "There's no picking and choosing, we-"

"Then I'm _choosing_ to take my daughter somewhere else," I say, knowing full well that the only other school within driving distance of our apartment is a private school - one that costs money instead of this free public school.

"Mrs. Mitchell, if you'd sit down, we can discuss-"

"Ms.," I insist, flipping around so my hair flies. "It's Ms. And I won't sit down. I'm taking Chelsea home. She won't be coming back here again."

I storm out of the office and down the hall to where her kindergarten classroom is, then knock on the open door. Chelsea's sitting on the rug with the rest of her class, listening to the teacher who's positioned at the front of the room. "Mommy!" she says quietly, but excitedly.

"Come on, babe," I say, ushering her out. I make eye contact with the teacher. "I'm taking her. She's not coming back." I look to my daughter then and order, "Grab your stuff."

In the car, Chelsea knows better than to ask questions. I have a thousand thoughts running through my mind and no solutions to any of the problems they pose. I don't have the money for private school tuition, but there's no way I'm sending her back here. Absolutely no way. I'm stuck with no viable options and no idea what to do.

When Jesse comes over later, Chelsea is planted in front of a movie that I'm sure he'll join her for later. But first, he gives me a hug and I squeeze his waist tight, stealing one small kiss before my daughter can notice. "Hey," he says, framing my face with one hand. "What's wrong? You were so vague over text."

I glance to Chelsea, who's completely caught up in the screen. "I pulled her out of school today," I tell him. "For good."

"What?"

I nod firmly. "They weren't gonna do anything about the kid who's hurting her, so I did something." I sigh. "Something big."

"Now what?" he asks.

I sigh. "The only other school in the district is private. It costs about $6,000 per year, which I don't have. But I'm gonna have to figure out some way to get it."

"Shit," he says.

"Yeah, I know."

Then, Chelsea notices Jesse's presence. "Jesse!" she says, waving him over with one hand. "Come watch Fairytopia with me."

"Come on," Jesse says, looking at me. "Let's watch Fairytopia."

"I don't know," I say, sighing.

"No choice in the matter," he says brightly, taking my hand. "I bet you could stand to get your mind off things and watch Barbies fly around for an hour."

I give in because he's right and I know it. I don't necessarily want to watch a movie that I've seen at least twenty times, but it's enough to just be with the two of them sitting on the living room floor, smiling at Chelsea when she laughs at the same scenes she always laughs at. I have to remind myself that even if the world is falling apart around us, I still have both of them. No matter what changes, I know they'll stay the same.

…

After the weekend passes and it's time for me and Chelsea to go clean Jesse's office, he meets us at the front door. "Hey," I say, leaning into the hug he gives me, then watching as he lifts Chelsea onto his hip. "What's up? I thought you were gonna see us at the apartment."

"Well, that was the plan," he says. "Until I put the final piece in place for your surprise."

"My surprise?" I echo, furrowing my eyebrows. "Jess, I hate surprises. You know that."

"You won't hate this one," he says. "Take my word for it. Follow me."

I watch the back of he and Chelsea's heads as he walks down a long hallway, then we come to a stop in front of the open door to a recording booth. "I cleaned the sound booths last time, and my boss said they only need to be done once in a while," I tell him.

"That's not why we're here," he tells me. "_I _talked to _my _boss. Maybe showed him some of your old stuff. Old vocals, old beats, and…" He shrugs and smiles a mile-wide grin. "He wants to give you a shot."

"What?" I say.

"He wants to hear what you can do," Jesse says. "I know you don't have anything ready, but I wanted to surprise you. It doesn't have to happen tonight. But… if he likes what you have to offer - which he will - he wants to sign you."

"Is Mommy gonna be a famous singer?" Chelsea asks, looking excitedly between the two of us. "Just like she used to be when you guys loved each other in college?"

I can't help the smirk that twists its way onto my face. I give Chelsea a big kiss on the cheek, then make strong, lasting eye contact with Jesse. This means more to me than he could ever know. Or maybe he does know. That makes it even better.

"I think a lot of things might go back to the way they were in college," I say, then take either of their hands to give them a hearty squeeze. "And that's a very, very good thing."


End file.
